


with all the haste of a glacier

by swapcats



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 21:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3224864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swapcats/pseuds/swapcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of war, and in the face of a long recovery, Ashe weighs all she could've lost against all that she no longer has—and perhaps never did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with all the haste of a glacier

     Clammy hands clasp her frozen body, holding her down. Each finger feels like a white-hot iron, fresh from the forge, and Ashe lashes out with all the strength she doesn't have, all the power she's already bled out.

     Words cluster before her, foggy, hazy. They cloud her mind, each syllable flatter than the last, pounding between her temples like the steady beat of a war drum, skin pulled taut. The voices belong to the enemy, she's certain of it. All she remembers is snow and blood, the accumulation of her life's work, the bitter cold filling her lungs, seizing her heart in its icy grip.

     There's no coming back from that, she knows, she knows. She understood all she was risking when she loosed that last arrow, glacier cracking with black ice beneath her feet; Tryndamere with his shattered blade raised, screaming for her to move; Sejuani swinging the chain of her flail, not needing to say anything.

     Their bodies falling against the ice, one by one.

     Ashe bolts upright, jaw trembling, teeth chattering. She tries to throw out her arms, but pain shoots down her spine in protest. She doesn't have the chance to fall backwards. Burning hands catch her, lowering her onto—

     Onto—

     It isn't ice, or snow. 

     A voice gets through. Words thaw the numbness in her chest, turning it to a constant, aching buzz.

     “Your Majesty, please— hold still.”

     Ashe falls back down, letting the pain and cold and the taste of bile in her throat take her. Eyes screwed shut, she does all she can to cling to a faint ember of hope, the only thing keeping her adrift. _Your Majesty_. The word echoes in her mind, before the darkness comes.

     They called her _Your Majesty_ , as though something for her to reign over still stands.

*

     In the days that follow, Ashe pieces her surroundings together through flashes of consciousness. It isn't the easiest task with half her head thick with bandages and her temples pounding, but she comes to realise that she isn't in enemy hands. She's in an infirmary, surrounded by dozens of her people, all reflecting the state she's in.

     The air's thick with the stench of open, rotting wounds, of useless limbs that ought to have come off days ago, and groans and whines and rattling coughs do little to keep her awake. Fires roar at each end of the hall, and Ashe tells herself that she's home, over and over. Each time the darkness comes for her, pulling her down, down into her own agony, she reminds herself that she's home, and that she _has_ to open her eyes again, for the sake of her people.

     She barely believes that they've won, but if they have, they're going to need someone to lead them into an era of peace. The idea of the peace sits strangely in her chest – it is too big, too heavy, for her to hold – as though celebrating its end, even in her own mind, will lead them back onto the battlefield.

     She doesn't know how long it takes, but eventually, she's able to keep her eyes open for an hour or more at a time.

     The infirmary empties, bit by bit. People are released to recover in their own camps and cabins; or they are not released, but removed regardless. When there are no longer countless injured to deal with, Ashe is moved into private quarters. The world sways as they move her on a stretcher through the halls of the lodge, and she is swaying, swaying still when a knock rattles the door in its frame.

     She opens her mouth to speak. No words come out. She remembers the healers bringing her water, holding it to her lips as more ran from the sides of her mouth than down her throat, but her mouth tastes of ash and dust.

     “Ashe...?” comes a deep, familiar voice. The door creaks open and Ashe's heart remembers how to pound again.

     Tryndamere bows his head and steps into the room, door closing behind him. One of his arms is in a sling and the bandages across the left side of his chest are thick with dry blood, but he's _alive_. He's alive and he's smiling, kneeling by her side.

     Ashe holds out a hand and Tryndamere clasps it between both of his own, resting his forehead against her fingertips.

     Ashe exhales shakily. How certain she'd been that the enemy had taken her; how certain she'd been that Tryndamere's death was the price of a victory she still doesn't believe in.

     “... you're alive,” she manages in a whisper.

     Tryndamere laughs, shaky with relief at the sound of her voice, and Ashe has to turn her head to the side to better see him. The bandages still wrap around her forehead, covering her right eye and cheek.

     “We did it, Ashe. _You_ did it,” Tryndamere says, and though her memories are either foggy or missing, Ashe _believes_ him. “The Freljord's united.” 

     Ashe moves onto her back, eyes screwed shut. Her chest trembles with short, sharp stuttery breaths, and Tryndamere grips her hand tighter. She should be flooded with relief, with joy, to know her life's work is accomplished, but she knows it's only the beginning. Peace isn't easily kept. The people of the Freljord will find reason to turn against each other, now that they're not turned against Lissandra, and Ashe doesn't know how she's supposed to handle any of that.

     Not with the way her head still spins, the chill that hasn't left her bones. Her head pounds as she does what she can not to cry, not to panic when she knows she's hurt, she's hurt, she'll be able to handle this once she recovers. She clings to Tryndamere's hand tighter than ever.

     “Hey...” he murmurs as gently as he can with his gruff voice, one arm slipping around her shoulders.

     He pulls her close, kissing the top of her head.

     “I don't even _remember_ what happened,” Ashe sobs miserably. “How many were wounded, how many were lost...”

     “Let me worry about that, for now. I'm your husband for a reason,” he says, and in spite of all that's unfolded, there's a hint of teasing in his voice. After a pointed pause, he says, “As for what happened—you'd have more luck asking Sejuani than me.”

     Something inside of Ashe tears open. The part of herself that wouldn't even allow her to _think_ of Sejuani, as though it would only hasten the inevitable news of her demise. Ashe can't believe it. Is afraid to believe it. It's only then, with Tryndamere's arm around her, that all she would've felt _had_ Sejuani been felled by the witch comes tumbling out. Her heart clenches like a fist and she leans against Tryndamere, barely daring to whisper.

     “Sejuani's alive?”

     She feels him nod.

     “The Winter's Claw have set up camp on the outskirts. She's recovering there.”

     Ashe nods against his chest, swallowing the lump in her throat. She clings tightly to him, finding it difficult to reconcile all that the war's cost them with all that she still has.

*

     The next day – or the day after that – a healer comes to unwind her bandages. 

     The woman peels them away carefully, layer by layer. The more she removes, the more dried blood and congealed salve Ashe sees clinging to them, and she does what she can to keep her breathing even. Panicking isn't going to help her. She waits patiently as the last of the bandages fall loose, twisting her fingers in the bedsheets when her vision doesn't come back to her as she expected it to.

     Her eye just needs a moment to adjust. That's all.

     The healer lights a candle and holds it up. She tells Ashe to follow the flame, and her left eye darts after it as it moves from side to side, moving into a cloud of hazy grey nothingness. The woman frowns and Ashe pushes her fear and sudden spiking anger down, not wanting to snap that she can still see with one eye. 

     Gently, the healer covers Ashe's left eye, bringing the candle closer to her face. Ashe feels the heat against her skin, but not so much as a spark of light makes its way through. She blinks furiously. Nothing happens.

     “I'm sorry, Your Majesty,” the healer says.

     Ashe's mind roars that there must be _something_ she can do to help her, there must be a dozen things she hasn't tried yet, but she's been bedridden for weeks. Just because she doesn't remember all that's happened doesn't mean they haven't tried. If it's too late, it's too late, but she's an _archer_ , she _needs_ her eye.

     Frantically, Ashe reaches up, fingertips pressing to what the bandages have hidden from her. Her chest aches. Rough, misshapen skin meets the pads of her fingers, twisting and rising up like old, creased leather.

     “Get me a mirror,” she says. 

     For the first time in weeks, there's strength in her voice.

     “My Queen, I'm not certain—”

     “ _A mirror_ ,” she says tersely, “... please.”

     Despite her better judgement, the healer can't deny her anything. She hurries out of the room with a bow, and Ashe presses her fingertips to her temples, desperately hoping that the woman returns before she loses her nerve. The door creaks back open. Ashe's heart leaps, sticky in her throat. The healer places a hand-held mirror on the edge of the bed, and knows better than to linger any longer.

     Alone with the knowledge of what she's become pressed to her fingertips, Ashe grips the mirror's handle, wooden back facing her. The room is dim, lit only by a candle burning down to its last few inches, and whatever the mirror tells her now will be kinder than what faces her in the light of day.

     Ashe turns the mirror in her hand.

     She lifts her jaw, staring at the ceiling. Her fingers trail across the cool glass, leaving smudges, and when she finally dares to face her reflection, everything inside her unravels.

     It isn't just her eye that's taken the brunt of the damage. The right side of her face is gnarled and scarred, as though icy claws have dug in, ripping and tearing at her face. The damage starts above her eyebrow and trails all the way down to the line of her jaw, and the only relief from the wound is her eye: milky and unseeing. 

     Useless, useless.

     Ashe drops the mirror. It clatters against the floor and she sinks into her bed, sobbing. She doesn't cry out of vanity, though she would never hold tears back for such a reason. She cries because she is an _archer_ , she is a _Queen_ ; she is who she's always been, and yet she has been _changed_. Everything she feels, all the pain she wishes to keep hidden, rises to the surface, plain for anyone to see.

     She curls up in her bed, swathed in defeat while all of Rakelstake is moved to celebration beyond the cabin. She pulls the covers tight around her shoulders, telling herself that her disgust is her own: her people will still accept her, and Sejuani will reassure her that it is nothing but the mark of a warrior.

*

     Tryndamere takes on the bulk of Ashe's responsibilities while she heals from all that racks her body so. He brings news to her when she is stronger and in want of a distraction more than ever, handing her lists of those they've lost and how many remain wounded; he tells her of the food shortage already emerging further south of them, and sighs, exasperated at having to deal with the Winter's Claw now that there's no war to focus on. Ashe knows she can't hide away in her cabin forever.

     Tryndamere has an eye-patch made for her. The Avarosan crest is embroidered in sky-blue on the front, and it covers her blind eye.

     Her scars spread out from beneath it like dead, dying vines.

     “Come,” Tryndamere says, offering Ashe his arm once she has dressed. She has spent four days finding her feet again, pacing the length of her room, and takes Tryndamere's arm and all the support it offers. “Sejuani has been wanting to see you,” he adds in a knowing, encouraging tone.

     “She said that?” Ashe asks sceptically.

     “No,” Tryndamere says with a chuckle, leading her from the room. “But I can tell that she has already grown tired of me.”

     Outside, the midday sun reflects off the snow and ice, doing all it can to make her remaining eye useless. Ashe blinks hard, bringing a hand to her brow, and breathes in the crisp, cold air. It rushes into her lungs, reviving her, and as though word had got out about her visit to the Winter's Claw camp, all of the Freljord seems to have gathered to see her emerge back into the real world.

     Her first instinct is to run, and she doesn't know why. Tryndamere keeps a steady grip on her arm, and all at once, Ashe realises that the rumble she hears isn't fear drowning out her thoughts: her people are cheering for her. She looks around and sees her city whole and _safe_ , her people united for the first time in their lives, and only then does it sink in that the war's truly over.

     Ashe raises a hand, waving at them. Tryndamere lets go of her arm and Ashe leads him to the Winter's Claw encampment. 

     In the time she's been healing, the Winter's Claw have truly settled. The way their camps line the edge of the city makes the arrangement seem permanent, somehow; they do not shy away from the outskirts, do not seek to isolate themselves. Ashe sees her own people mixing with them, and then forces herself to stop thinking that way: they are _all_ her people, now. 

     Hers and Sejuani's, Avarosan and Winter's Claw alike. 

     The Winter's Claw line the make-shift streets between their tents, discussing their next move, trading with those from the heart of the city. They work out in the freshly fallen snow, hammering their weapons back into shape, skinning the fruits of the latest hunt. All of them stop what they're doing when she passes, murmuring under their breaths.

     For all they gawk and stare, Ashe finds a dull sense of respect there. She has proven herself to them in taking down the Ice Witch, though she still does not know how, and they no longer care to be openly hostile to her, as they once were.

     The tent the higher-ups within the Winter's Claw have gathered in is as large as a hall. A great oaken table with room for a dozen people down each side sits in the middle, and the tent floor is covered in piles of furs, where tribespeople sprawl out, drinking and listening to the current argument being thrown around the table. One person catches sight of her, and then another, until people are turning in their chairs to see who's caused such a hush to ripple through the tent.

     Ashe desperately seeks out Sejuani. Her eye flickers across the table, and she finds herself having to twist her head to make up for the endless blind spot to her right. 

     Sejuani draws attention to herself. 

     “Stand when your Queen enters,” she says.

     Her deep voice rushes through Ashe. She bites the inside of her mouth as all in the tent rise to their feet, except for Sejuani. She remains sat at the centre of the table, staring at Ashe in a way that makes her forget that there are easily sixty people surrounding her, all eyes on her. She inhales sharply, scolding herself for ever daring to imagine that Sejuani might not have survived. 

     Tryndamere clears his throat. Ashe raises a hand, gesturing for all present to be seated, and the two men opposite Sejuani scurry to the sides, making room for Ashe and Tryndamere.

     Ashe sits, meeting Sejuani's gaze. Sejuani's eyes remained fixed on hers. They don't map the web of scars engulfing half her face, but Ashe can't stop her eyes from flickering across Sejuani's face, her shoulders, her hands placed on the tabletop. Seeing isn't enough. Ashe doesn't trust her eye. She needs to reach out across the table and place her hands against Sejuani's cheek, press her thumbs to the strong line of her jaw.

     But nothing in Sejuani's face betrays emotion. Ashe can read nothing in her expression, and for a gut-wrenching moment, it's as if neither of them mean anything to each other.

     “I am glad to find you both in attendance,” Sejuani says by means of starting things.

     The words don't come to Ashe.

     “We're eager to get things underway,” Tryndamere says in her place.

     There aren't any scars across Sejuani's face. Not any new ones. 

     Ashe closes her eye for a second and finds herself. Talking politics, strategy, long-term plans; she can do that. She needs that sense of order, of control right now. They speak of the Winter's Claw's place amongst the Avarosan as equals, and Ashe opens the city up to any who wish to make their homes there. They speak of equal power, divided between Ashe and Sejuani, and then of what the future holds in store for them. Smaller tribes to beaten back. Land to be redistributed. Smaller towns and villages to be repaired.

     All the while Ashe talks, never once hesitating or letting herself be spoken over, she steels herself, making herself unflinching in the face of all that will no longer be between her and Sejuani. Her mind casts back to the weeks leading up to the end of the war. Back then, they thought they were counting down to the last of their days. The situation was desperate, dire; all seemed in vain. No wonder they were driven towards one another. No wonder Sejuani finally relented, letting down her walls.

     It was physical, Ashe thinks, remembering Sejuani's hands on her hips, smoothing down her back. Things are finally balancing back out. The world is changing for the better, and Ashe can't allow herself to remain trapped in the past.

     At the commencement of the meeting, Sejuani dismisses her – their – people. Despite all Ashe has told herself, something in the way Sejuani looks at her stops her from rising to her feet. Tryndamere clears his throat and says he needs to be elsewhere.

     Ashe's heart sinks. She closes her eyes, and as the wind batters the sides of the tent, she sees Lissandra stood above her, gripping the last links of Sejuani's chain, pulling her closer, closer...

     “I apologise for not standing when you entered,” Sejuani says stiffly.

     Ashe's eye snaps back open. She's on the verge of telling her that there's no need for such formalities when she sees Sejuani lean over the arm of her great wooden throne and pick up a cane. She stabs the end into the floor and rises slowly, knuckles turning white as she grips the wolf's head handle. Slowly, Sejuani makes her way around the table, to Ashe's side. Each step is heavier than the last, and her weight rests on her left leg. She near enough drags her injured half through the tent.

     There's no need for her to do that. Ashe knows that. But Sejuani's showing Ashe what's become of her without the need for words. She's seen Ashe's scars, plain as day; now she's correcting the balance.

     “Sejuani...” Ashe says, hoping that nothing like pity seeps into her voice. There's understanding there. Nothing but understanding.

     Sejuani shakes her head, pulling out the chair next to Ashe.

     “I'll still be able to ride,” she says, lowering herself into the seat. After a moment, she adds, “And you'll find your aim once again.”

     Ashe knits her fingers together. She doesn't know what to say.

     Sejuani sits there, patient. Either not knowing what to say herself, or having nothing to say.

     Unable to take the weight of her gaze any longer, Ashe says, “I don't... don't remember what happened. How it ended. Flashes come back to me, but so much of it is shrouded in darkness. Tryndamere said you'd be able to tell the tale better than him.”

     Ashe thinks of how the Winter's Claw love to boast of their exploits over roaring fires with steins of mead in hand, and realises how _different_ this is. Ashe's eyes settle on Sejuani's cane, and guiltily, she adds, “If you wish to speak of it.”

     “It's vital you know,” Sejuani replies quickly. Too quickly. “What do you last remember?”

     Ashe hesitates, uncertain of how to order the images in her mind. All the battles they fought blend together, and the last moments are a jumble. Lissandra's forces struck down, her powers darker than ever, stronger than ever; their army cut off from them, just the three of them atop the glacier, bodies strewn behind them like breadcrumbs.

     Ashe remembers the _thwip_ of her arrows flying. She remembers Tryndamere being thrown back, his blade shattered by black ice; Lissandra seizing Sejuani's flail and tearing the weapon from the chain. More than anything, she remembers the absolute despair flooding her, the profound certainty that it was the end.

     That she was going to die. 

     “I'd been knocked down,” she says slowly, memories returning to her as she speaks. “Tryndamere had been forced back, off the edge of the glacier. I—something reached out, colder than ice, and dug into my face...”

     She brings her fingertips to her eye-patch, not daring to touch her scars again.

     “You were standing above Lissandra,” she says, regaining her footing. “You'd managed to reclaim your chain, and she was heading for me. And that's—that's all I remember.”

     Sejuani nods. She doesn't look as though bringing the memories to the surface causes her any undue distress, but Ashe knows better than that. Or she likes to believe she does.

     “You let loose an arrow. It didn't hit the target, but skimmed the witch's arm,” Sejuani accounts, closing her eyes as she speaks. “It was enough to distract her for half a second. I charged at her, threw my chain around her throat and pulled it taut, forcing her to her knees. You formed another ice arrow, gripped it in your hand and sunk it deep into her throat.”

     Ashe barely manages to parse the words. No memories bloom within her, flashing through her mind. She knows of no reason for Sejuani to lie, but she does not remember the feel of an ice arrow wrapped tight in her fist, nor does she recall sinking it into Lissandra's flesh.

     “And your leg?” Ashe asks quietly, cautiously, not knowing whether that crosses a line or not.

     Sejuani sits straighter.

     “My leg was already broken, at that point. She had struck me with her ice at the start of the battle,” she explains, fingertips drifting to her cane. “But she did not go down easily. Magic was forced from her when you struck the final blow: it threw us all back. I was knocked from the glacier. I landed on my already injured side.”

     Ashe nods, then nods again. The war is over, and though they have their wounds, they have their lives.

     Sejuani reaches out, placing a hand on Ashe's shoulder before she has time to tense. Sejuani leans forward, raising her brow, and only then does Ashe realise her breaths are coming too quickly.

     “Ashe,” Sejuani says sternly. “You killed her. You defeated her.”

     Ashe brings a hand to her mouth, rubbing her chapped lips.

     “No,” she says softly. “ _We_ defeated her.”

     Sejuani nods firmly and reclaims her hand. Ashe regrets not covering it with her own.

     Sejuani grips the arms of the chair, pushing herself to her feet, and Ashe doesn't look away. She watches as Sejuani clasps her cane, turning away from her without much more than a glance, heading out into the cold as if there's too much between them that never was.

*

     As soon as word gets out that their Queen has been seen inside the city again, there is only one thing the people want: a _real_ celebration.

     There are a hundred and one other things Ashe needs to attend to, but Tryndamere gently reminds her of the importance of taking a moment to allow everyone to reflect, to be grateful for all they have, for all they've fought to win. And, Tryndamere adds, them getting to see their Queen _smile_ might not hurt, either.

     Ashe can't deny that it'll do everyone's spirits good. The winter's been a long one, and the spring doesn't look to be much kinder. The largest hall in Rakelstake is set aside for the event, and no expense is spared. Ashe stops fretting over their food supply for a day, and has pigs slaughtered and deer brought back from the hunt. The hall is lined with barrels of ale and wine, and is set up to accommodate hundreds. Outside, tables fit for feasts are laid out in the city centre, leading up to the steps of the hall, so that all in the Freljord may join in the celebration.

     Ashe takes out her best clothes and lays them across the bed. She runs her fingertips across the blue fabric, the light, silver-speckled fur lining the collar, and reminds herself that her feet are firmly on the ground. This is how things are now; she isn't dreaming. The war waged on for so long that it still burns within her, and Ashe has difficulty believing that she truly has a need for such lavish clothing.

     When she arrives at the hall, sun already setting, the tables outside are swarmed. Row by row, people look to her and Tryndamere. They raise their glasses and cheer for her, some standing, saluting. Even the Winter's Claw are in high spirits, rubbing elbows and bumping shoulders with those they once considered their enemy. Ashe heads into the hall, nodding and waving at those who spill their ale in an effort to toast her as she passes.

     Sejuani is sat at the centre of the largest table. The hall is bustling with activity – some have even taken to dancing in the gaps between tables as the band plays at the far end – but all Ashe can see is Sejuani. She strides across the hall and Sejuani looks up, meeting her gaze, though no one has announced Ashe's arrival. Slowly but surely, the hall goes quiet. Sejuani tilts her head towards the empty seats next to her, and Ashe takes her place for the commencement of the feast.

     “For a moment, I thought you might not make it,” Sejuani says, bringing the horn she drinks from to her lips. “With any luck, we will only celebrate the end of a war of this scale once: do not squander the evening.”

     Ashe readjusts her eye-patch, and signals over a servant and the wine skin they're ferrying up and down the table. When her goblet is filled, she swishes the dark red liquid around, wondering how best to say that yes: she is aware that she hasn't truly smiled in a long, long time.

     “Things have been hectic, of late,” Ashe settles on, swallowing a great mouthful of wine. “At times, I fear peace will outpace war.”

     “Freedom is not free,” Sejuani allows. “And you speak to me as though I am not aware of the situation. We are ruling _together_ , Ashe.”

     Ashe nods, holding the glass to her lips without taking another drink. All that she has proven to herself lately is that she is a hypocrite; she has spent so much of her life speaking of unity, yet some part of her is determined to feel that she is alone in all of this.

     She looks over the hall, taking in the sight of their people sitting down for a feast together. Slapping one another on the back after a well-told joke. Teaching each other the drinking games and songs that follow of their tribes.

     “For all my talk, I didn't dare to believe we could come together _this_ well,” Ashe says, turning to meet Sejuani's eye.

     Sejuani huffs a laugh through her nose.

     “My people could still drink yours under the table.”

     “ _Our_ people, Sejuani. Our people.”

     Sejuani takes a long drink from her horn, eyes narrowing as she does so. For a moment, Ashe is worried she's said too much, but Sejuani eventually lowers her drink and says, “Ah. Now _that_ is almost a smile.”

     The food is brought around not a second later. The tables are piled high with roasted pork and venison, great tubs of stew, and yet more ale. Sejuani cuts the meat for her, then piles her own plate high. Her appetite certainly hasn't changed.

     As they eat, a bard comes around, telling tales of hard-won victories Ashe still doesn't remember. Sejuani tears mouthful after mouthful of meat off between her teeth, doing all she can not to listen.

     At some point in the evening, Ashe manages to relax. She can't say whether it's down to the wine, or Tryndamere's constant, friendly reminders. She speaks with her generals, with the people who helped them win the war, but no matter how light the conversation is, no matter how she reminds herself over and over that this is _real_ , they've won, her attention always wanders back over to Sejuani.

     Sejuani sits and boasts like it's a birthright, just as all Winter's Claw do. She drinks deep from her horn, and Ashe's mind will not allow her to remain in the present. She remembers the meal before the final battle, and how different it was: camped out in a wind-battered tent, eating the last of what they had hunted. Chewing miserably, no one speaking, no one daring to look at one another for fear of what was to come in the morning.

     She remembers gripping Sejuani's knee under the table, choked with fear and desperation and desire, so certain it'd be their last chance to mean anything to one another. Needing to hold onto her to stop her hands from shaking. Being permitted into her tent; the feeling of Sejuani above her, strong but not silent in the face of what awaited them with the dawn. Her face in her neck, breath on her skin, fingers threading through her hair—

     But no. She can't be selfish. She can't long for a past that puts her people at war once again.

     Sejuani catches her staring. Ashe offers up a watery smile, and wonders if Sejuani, too, is remembering those few moments where they truly understood one another.

*

     She misses the feel of her bow in her hands. She misses being able to sleep without a plague of nightmares following, too, but this is something she can attempt to fix. There is much to distract her, but her fingers still twitch, sometimes, as though a part of her has been stolen.

     When she finds a moment to herself, she treks out into the woodland, hoping to make targets of trees. She takes a bow with her that fires arrows of wood and flint, uncertain whether she would be able to hit her mark; uncertain whether she deserves to take aim with her ice bow, yet.

     The wood is thick and lush, evergreens growing strong in spite of the sheets of snow that weigh down their branches. The deeper she goes, the less the wind touches her; it's perfect for learning to take aim again. She trails between the trees, avoiding tree wells, still not entirely used to having to turn her head to see as much of the world as she needs to. 

     She reaches a small clearing and crouches. The only footprints in the snow belong to rabbits; their hunters haven't come through this way in days. She picks a tree, one with a thick trunk, places her palm against a knot and takes fifteen steps backwards. It's a straight line. All she has to do is shoot in a straight line.

     Taking an arrow from her quill, Ashe raises her bow. She notches the arrow, feeling the string pull taut, listening to the wood creak as it bends without ever thinking of breaking. Her hands are in the perfect position. She hasn't forgotten this part, couldn't. It comes as easily as breathing to her. Yet she hesitates.

     She looks down the shaft of the arrow and the world's cut in two: all that she sees and all that she can't. The grey nothingness feels as though it's bleeding into the rest of her vision. She tries to look beyond it, around it, but her block isn't a mental one. It isn't something she's going to be able to overcome through sheer willpower alone.

     She looses the arrow. It flies past the tree she's set her eye on, embedding itself in one two rows back.

     She reaches for another arrow and fires again. It misses the trees altogether, lost in the undergrowth. Another and then another: she finally hits the tree she was aiming for, but the arrow lands inches from its target. Had she been aiming for a person or a wolf, the arrow would've sailed clear past them.

     Her arm aches with barely-healed wounds and the weeks she's gone using it for little more than writing. Determined not to give up, she wrenches the arrows free of bark, ready to try over and over again. She steps backwards, retreating five paces, and a twig snaps.

     She glances down. There's nothing but powdered snow between her boots, but the sound was _close_. She closes her eye, focusing. Leaves rustle. Snow falls from a branch. The slight sounds of the woodland being disturbed engulf her; she's being circled. Slowly, she notches an arrow. If there was ever a moment for her aim to come back to her...

     A gruff grunt slips through the trees, far from human. Ashe's shoulders relax, bow lowering.

     She looks around, following the sound, but Bristle manages to remain out of sight. 

     The pressure of a captive audience does nothing to improve her marksmanship. Ashe pulls back the bowstring, fires, misses; hits the wrong target. She looses arrow after arrow, reclaiming them from snow and bark, trying until her hands tremble with the cold, shaken by failure. The arrows slip from the bow before the wood gets the chance to bend. She exhales heavily, shoulders shaking. Her breath coils in the air, obscuring what's left of her vision, and she wonders who she's trying to prove herself to: herself or Sejuani.

     “There,” Ashe says, dropping her bow to the ground. “I am not the archer I was.”

     A moment passes in silence, and Bristle pushes his way through the undergrowth. Ashe's misplaced anger doesn't burn within her for long. When Bristle is before her in the clearing, Sejuani lowers herself to the ground, with no small amount of difficulty. She grits her teeth, finding her feet and suffering for it. Of course Sejuani isn't there to judge her, to belittle her from the shadows.

     Ashe doesn't dare to offer her hand out as Sejuani leans heavily against Bristle, freeing her cane from his saddle.

     “It won't come back to you in a day, Ashe,” Sejuani says, shifting her weight to the cane as she steps closer. “You need to retrain yourself from a new perspective. Literally.”

     Ashe frowns. The pelts wrapped around Sejuani's shoulders make her seem taller, more untouchable, than she truly is.

     “And you've come to teach me the proper method?” Ashe asks, kneeling to retrieve her bow.

     “No. I am no archer,” Sejuani says, “But Bjarne is.”

     “Bjarne?”

     Ashe wonders if the name is supposed to mean anything to her.

     “An archer in my – _our_ – tribe. His left eye was gouged out by an enemy when he was but a teenager. He claims it was the best thing to ever happen to him, and his skill with a bow attests to that,” Sejuani explains. “I have spoken with him. He says he'd be honoured to train with you.”

     The gesture catches her off-guard. She doesn't know what to say to Sejuani; a simple _thank you_ would sound distant, formal. It wouldn't begin to conceal all she wants to say, but can't. She straps her bow to her back, eye darting left and right and she searches her mind for an adequate reply, but Sejuani moves the conversation along for her.

     She pulls a wolf's pelt from her shoulders and pins her cane between her arm and ribs, reaching out to wrap the soft strip of fur around Ashe's neck.

     “You were shivering,” Sejuani explains. “Head back to your quarters.”

     Her tone is too gentle for it to come out as an order.

     Ashe brings a hand to the pelt and says, “Why were you watching me? Why did you not come forward until I had given up?”

     Sejuani's already turned back to Bristle. Her fingers hook around the edge of his saddle, and her shoulders rise before she speaks.

“I wished to offer support. I made certain you knew I was there,” she says, grunting as she hoists herself onto Bristle's back. “You need've only called out to me.”

     Bristle pushes himself off the ground, and heads back through the undergrowth. Ashe tightens the pelt around her throat, and once they're out of sight, retraces her own footsteps back to Rakelstake. 

*

     Tryndamere's head has been dashed against the glacier. Blood fills the web of veins cracked into the ice, and though Ashe screams, he doesn't move. 

     She calls his name, but cold air rushes into her lungs like water, choking her. Lissandra stands over her, blocking out what little's left of the sun, long, sharp icy claws fanned out. Ashe clutches the bloodied side of her face, open wounds gushing between her fingers, reaching desperately for the bow that's been knocked from her grasp. 

     She can't take her eyes off Lissandra. Ice fills her lungs and fear runs through her veins like liquid steel, but her body doesn't listen to her brain: _move, move, she's going to strike, reclaim your bow, move_. A coppery taste floods her mouth, trickling down the back of her throat, and as she flinches in anticipation of Lissandra's claws coming down again, a mountain of a shadow tears through her failing vision.

     Lissandra howls. Sejuani's stood behind her, chain gripped between each hand, crossing Lissandra's throat. Ashe's heart jolts in her chest, freeing her from whatever spell Lissandra had cast. She dares to take her eyes off her, spots her bow a few feet from her and dives for it. The glacier seems to rise up and meet her ribs but it's worth it, it's so worth it, Sejuani's choking Lissandra and there's an ice arrow forming between her fingers.

     “Hurry!” Sejuani calls.

     Ashe looses the arrow. Her aim's all askew, but the arrow flies true, striking Lissandra just above her collarbone. A shriek claims the air, and with grit teeth, Ashe summons another arrow and everything goes wrong. Lissandra wraps her fingers around Sejuani's chain and it melts away like so much frost. Ashe has an arrow trained on her, but Lissandra doesn't care; she knocks Sejuani back and turns to her.

     Ashe aims for Lissandra's throat. Lissandra raises a hand, catching the arrow without glancing away from Sejuani.

     Planting a hand against the ice, Ashe tells herself that it's only her eye that's injured, only her eye, and every bone in her body screams in protest as she pushes herself onto unsteady feet. She charges at Lissandra, throws all of her weight against her, but the woman doesn't move; she lifts a foot, stomping down on Sejuani's chest. Everything inside of Sejuani heaves as blood and bile rush from her throat.

     Another arrow. Not trusting her herself, she grabs it by the shaft and sinks it deep into Lissandra's throat. The witch smiles, dark and gleeful. She lifts the arrow she stole from Ashe and sinks in into Sejuani's throat in the same motion. 

     Ashe screams. Lissandra laughs. Sejuani's eyes and mouth open wide as a strangled choke fills the air. Ashe desperately reaches for her, but Lissandra has her claws sunk into her shoulder. Sejuani holds Ashe's gaze for as long as she can, until a final puff of air escapes her lungs and her eyes roll back in her skull. 

     Lissandra doesn't allow Ashe a moment to grieve, or scream. Knowing there's no fight left in her, she drags her claws down the other side of her face, and Ashe falls to her knees, gripping to her face. Everything inside of her is tired and twisted, hollow and used up, and she aches with the desire to cry.

     A moment later, she bolts upright in bed.

     She grips her face and finds it damp with sweat, not blood. Her heart is racing and the blankets have been thrown from the bed. With shaky hands, Ashe reaches for her bedside cabinet and lights the candle there. Soft light fills her bed chamber, making familiar shapes of the dark shadows that had claimed the room. She blinks, but is still blind in one eye.

     Only half a nightmare, then.

     She can feel them getting worse. Guilty, she hopes Tryndamere didn't hear her through the wall. There's no reason for them both to be awake at such a late hour. The thought of returning to sleep fills her with a quiet dread, the sort that promises to show her Sejuani's empty eyes every time she tries to drift off. She rises from the bed and stands by the window. The sweat on her brow dries quickly, cold claiming the room once more.

     Outside, the moon is full. A few scattered lights still glow throughout the city, and Ashe knows that the only remedy for her restlessness is to feel Sejuani's arms around her, her breath on the back of her neck.

     But that isn't going to happen. The world is different, now that the war is over, and Ashe has to learn to live with that. Has to learn to be grateful for all she still has.

     She finds herself dressing, pulling on furs to contend with the dead of night. None of that is to say that she can't share words with Sejuani, or at least silent understanding.

     It doesn't occur to her that Sejuani might be asleep. Ashe feels as though the weight of her own dream ought to have slipped into Sejuani's mind, leaving her shaken. She heads through the night, to the outskirts of the city that are no longer the outskirts, anymore. There are not just tents there. Log cabins have started to be built up, the roads paved over with slabs of stone and gravel.

     Sejuani's tent still stands in the centre of it all. From a distance, Ashe sees a faint light inside, seeping out where the fabric of the door is pulled across. Determined not to lose her nerve, Ashe takes a bold step forward, marching towards the tent. Two burly guards step towards one another, blocking her path. Raising her chin and pulling her hood back, Ashe doesn't say a single word. She lets them recognise her, lets them grumble their apologies as they step aside.

     Pushing the flap of the tent open, she ducks inside. Sejuani is as restless as she is: the furs that make up her bed are scattered, and she sits with her boots banished, nothing on her injured leg. Ashe sees it for what it is as Sejuani rubs foul-smelling salves into her skin. The bone is shattered and twisted, making something unnatural, unsettling of her leg. Ashe doesn't let herself wince. She doesn't let herself retreat.

     Sejuani meets her gaze and Ashe reminds herself that _of course_ she's alive, of course she's _safe_.

     “Ashe?” Sejuani asks softly.

     Ashe's fingers brush against her palms, but she doesn't manage to form fists. She opens her mouth to speak but says nothing, and Sejuani keeps her eyes on her as she washes her hands in a bowl of tepid water and covers her lap with a fur skinned from a bear.

     “You're in pain,” Ashe manages.

     “Yes,” Sejuani says plainly. “At most times.”

     Ashe empties her lungs in a shaky breath and lets herself fall to the floor. She sits opposite Sejuani, knees almost touching. All at once, she knows why she's there; she knows why she's there and her chest aches, eye stinging with tears. She screws it shut and runs her fingers through her long hair, frustrated when the strap of her eye-patch tangles with loose strands. With a slump of her shoulders, she tugs the eye-patch free, dropping it to her lap.

     “Sejuani...” she tries.

     “Why are you here?” Sejuani asks.

     She presses her fingers beneath Ashe's chin, tilting it upwards. Ashe has no choice but to meet her gaze, and endures the long seconds Sejuani takes to understand the full extent of the damage that was done to her.

     “Nightmares,” Ashe says as Sejuani pulls her hand back. She laughs dryly at herself. “I still do not remember what unfolded – not in its entirety, not of my own accord – yet I dream of it every night. Tryndamere was dead. And you—you were bested, killed by Lissandra with one of my arrows.”

     Her shoulders shake, but as the words come out, she finds herself unable to cry. Sejuani listens patiently, and Ashe wishes that she would take hold of her shoulders and pull her close; that she would take her hand and squeeze it tightly.

     “Yet I am here. I am alive,” Sejuani eventually says. “Had I not survived, you would be able to cling to the knowledge that I went into battle believing it would be my last.”

     “Is that why—” Ashe's mouth is dry. “Is that what I was? A way to commemorate your last nights on Runeterra? 

     And for all Sejuani has kept to herself in this time of peace, for all she has been distant and unyielding, something flashes in her eyes that Ashe has never seen before. It takes her a moment to place it, but she understand what it is. She has hurt her. Her words were cruel. Her fingers dig into her knees and she looks away, ashamed of what she's said. Sejuani has her reasons, has her own wants and needs. It isn't her place to question that.

     “Ashe—” Sejuani reaches for her shoulder, but thinks better of it. “I did not _use_ you. I believed I was to die. We all did. I spent what I was certain were my last days with bravery enough to live them as I wanted to.”

     Ashe still can't look at her.

     “And what of now? There are countless days ahead of us, yet you have become a stranger to me,” Ashe murmurs. “I find it harder and harder to convince myself that there was once something true between us...”

     This time, Sejuani doesn't stop herself from reaching out. Her fingers brush against Ashe's cheek, warm hand cupping her face, and Ashe can't stop herself from closing her eyes and leaning into the touch.

     Softly, and with an apology in her words, she says, “You are married, Ashe.”

     “And I was married throughout the nights we spent together,” Ashe returns. “You understand the arrangement Tryndamere and I have. I love him, but as a friend. He is my husband in name alone, for political reasons that are no longer our backbone.”

     “I could not do that to you, Ashe,” Sejuani says. Her other hand finds her cheek, thumbs brushing beneath her eyes. “I could not force you to live a life where you were breaking your vows throughout every waking moment. I did what I thought best for you, in spite of what I wanted.”

     Ashe looks back up at her. She wants to sob with relief, but that relief is hard-won, and changes nothing of what Sejuani's said. How easy it was for her to marry Tryndamere, to put her people first, when she did not feel for Sejuani as she does now. She is empty, defeated. All this time, she thought Sejuani unfeeling, when all she was doing was presuming to protect her.

     “But what about what _I_ what?” Ashe asks, unable to extinguish that selfish flame burning deep in her gut. “All I want is _you_ , Sej. I swore wedding vows so that I might unite the Freljord, and as long as it remains so, I am not breaking any solemn promise.”

     Sejuani drops her hands to her sides, refusing to allow a hint of hope to claim her. Ashe moves to her knees, arms resting on Sejuani's shoulders, fingers tangling in her short hair.

     “All this time, I worked to convince myself that you no longer wanted me. That what we had was physical, and had served its purpose,” she says, looking down at Sejuani, not caring how close her scar is to her face. “Somehow, this is worse than all that. To know how you feel, and that you will do nothing about it.”

     Sejuani growls. A low, rumbling sound escapes the back of her throat, and she wraps her arms tightly around Ashe's waist, pulling her close. She buries her face in Ashe's neck, and Ashe cannot allow herself to relax, to melt against her. How much has changed between them: she no longer knows how to position herself against Sejuani without doing her some harm. She remains stiff, back straight, as though this isn't the only thing she's ever wanted, other than peace and unity.

     She twists her fingers in the back of Sejuani's shirt, feeling her shoulders rise as she inhales. Sejuani pulls her head back, but only enough to kiss the side of her throat.

     “I shall do as you ask of me,” she whispers, and Ashe's heart beats like a drum.

     She holds Sejuani as tightly as she dares, kissing the top of her head. Closing her eyes, all she can think of is how much she wants to sleep. To sleep and dream of nothing, to fear nothing in the dark, and awaken with Sejuani's arms around her. She does what ought to be impossible. She lets go of Sejuani and moves away from her.

     She looks around for her eye-patch. When she doesn't immediately catch sight of it, she places her hands atop her head, eyes closed in frustration.

     “Should I leave?” she asks. “Would that be better?”

     “Better for who?”

     “For—for _you_ ,” Ashe mumbles. “I came for a reason, but I do not wish to make you feel as though you owe me something.”

     The furs lining the tent shift as Sejuani makes her way closer. Large, rough hands take hold of her hips, forcing Ashe to open her eyes. Sejuani sits at her feet, staring up at her plainly, exposed and open, and everything Ashe hasn't dare to let herself feel rushes out of her.

     She falls to her knees, clinging to Sejuani again. This time, she isn't letting go.

     “I want you, Ashe,” Sejuani says quietly, placing a hand on the back of her head. “I want you at no detriment to herself.”

     Ashe laughs, throat dry.

     “I want to sleep,” she says, burying her head in the crook of Sejuani's neck.

     “That much I can promise you,” Sejuani says, easing Ashe back.

     She unbuttons her cloak, eyes on Ashe all the while. Ashe shivers with something other than cold, allowing Sejuani to guide her down to the heap of furs she calls a bed. She yawns until her jaw aches, eyes stinging with exhaustion, and as she rubs her knuckles against them, Sejuani lowers herself next to her. It takes a while, but Sejuani manages to find a position that doesn't cause her to grit her teeth in unnecessary pain.

     “Will it only be for a night?” Ashe whispers, hand finding Sejuani's hip. 

     Sejuani inches over, pressing their foreheads together.

     “It will last as long as you're willing to endure me,” Sejuani promises, threading her fingers through her hair.

     Ashe leans forward, kissing her. There's no resistance, no burning heat or frantic rush. Sejuani yields to her, and Ashe knows it isn't because it's almost the end, because their days are numbered; it is slow and warm, spreading through her chest, speaking of the years to come.

     “Sleep, Ashe,” Sejuani says, long after the kiss has ended.

     Ashe leans into her, letting her body relax and her mind obey. She sleeps, and if only for a night, she's afforded reprieve from the twisted echoes of a struggle she cannot grasp, cannot remember.


End file.
